


An Ideal Helpmate

by AraSigyrn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft learns something of what John Watson is to his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ideal Helpmate

Doctor John Watson, while in every sense an admirable addition to Sherlock's life, is somewhat of an enigma to Mycroft.  
  
He knows all of Sherlock's predilections; most from times predating his younger brother's awareness of them and such a well-developed specimen of the British male could hardly have been better chosen to appeal to Sherlock's aesthetic sense. Mycroft's inquires suggest a noble, if regrettably straight-forward, spirit; the Doctor's commanders cannot write fulsomely enough of his many virtues and the great loss to the army represented by this Jovian paragon. Mycroft approves of the substance of Doctor Watson even if he feared for Sherlock's reputation, then later his heart.  
  
Men like John Watson simply do not perceive the panoramic spectrum of grey in the moral world. Mycroft valued the doctor's friendship with Sherlock, the stability and purpose given to his brother's aimless dabbling. He did not approve of Sherlock's intimate relationship with the man; sharing a home with such a man while harbouring illegal urges towards him was madness. Mycroft delayed for several months in actually raising this issue, only feeling it appropriate to mention the matter after a trifling matter provided a pretext for a personal visit.  
  
Sherlock delights in being contrary and it vexes Mycroft to allow him such sway in their complicated relations so he does not betray any emotion towards the good doctor. In deference to Sherlock's modest detective skills, he does not hide the appreciation of the doctor's physical charms. He does, when they meet in the Diogenes, raise the important issue.  
  
Mycroft cannot say, after, what he expected his younger brother's reaction to be. He did not anticipate Sherlock's bright, delighted laughter or the merry twinkle in his eye. Mycroft sips his port and forbears to comment. Sherlock's laughter lasts fully two minutes (by the ivory and silver clock on the mantelpiece) and he is still beaming in a lunatic manner when he assures Mycroft that he need not concern himself.  
  
There seems nothing more to say to that and Mycroft retires from the argument, his private opinion still reserved. Sherlock, displaying that vexing propensity for untimely deduction, seems to deduce this and moves to assuage Mycroft's worries.  
  
"Are we boring you, brother mine?" Sherlock's voice disturbs his reverie and Mycroft returns his attention to the matter in hand.  
  
John Watson's mouth is stretched too wide by Mycroft's member to allow him to echo Sherlock's impish query but his eyes peer up through his lashes as embarrassed colour floods his cheeks. Mycroft rocks forward, obliging the doctor's throat to work to encompass him, holding the position fractionally longer than the doctor can endure it. There is something pleasing about the gloss of tears on dark lashes.  
  
"Not at all," Mycroft pauses to draw in a breath as the doctor swallows, slick muscles working most pleasantly against Mycroft's roused ardour. He is breathing heavily through his nose and looks the very picture of debauchery. Mycroft closes his eyes momentarily to retain control. "Sherlock, if you are satisfied with your preparations?  
  
Sherlock twists his fingers, the doctor arching helplessly forward to choke against Mycroft and his brother's smile is equal parts avarice and affection as he strokes along the doctor's shuddering flank. He slides his fingers free of the doctor, reaching between bare legs to cup the doctor's own eager organ. Sherlock hums a line of Wagner as the doctor's eyes flutter and his throat works ardently, requiring a monumental effort from Mycroft to sustain his control.  
  
"I think he is as ready as I can manage." Sherlock admits with a wry twist of his lips. "You will be have to be careful with him."  
  
Mycroft strokes deliberately through the doctor's hair, pressing him close for a second before reluctantly encouraging him to disengage. He can hear the implicit warning and demand in Sherlock's tone and while he does not care to be ordered around like some Cabinet flunky, he has but to turn his attention to the greedy grasp of Sherlock's hands on the doctor's hips, fingers fitted to the rosy marks of countless prior copulations to acknowledge Sherlock's superior claim.  
  
Sherlock turns the doctor, fingers soothing and caressing while Sherlock mutters praise and instruction. Mycroft takes hold of the doctor's thighs, exerting himself enough to force the doctor's legs wider than necessity requires and running assessing fingers along the scar and the quivering muscles.  
  
The doctor is no longer articulate but Sherlock, ever adept at social interaction, soothes him. Mycroft watches his brother's slender fingers in the disheveled doctor's hair as he parts swollen red lips with his member and the doctor moans. Sherlock's pleased grunt inflames Mycroft with uncharacteristic impatience and he pulls the doctor back to straddle his lap, thrusting powerfully in.  
  
The doctor's inner tissues resist, Mycroft is broader than Sherlock and the doctor's head tips back as he cries wordlessly, mouth wide around Sherlock. The heat, the constriction and the willing submission is heady and Mycroft's higher functions desert him entirely. The doctor offers no resistance as Mycroft draws him inexorably back with steely hands as Sherlock strokes his hair and whispers praise and filth that the doctor is in no condition to hear.  
  
It does not take long for Mycroft's legendary composure to fail him and Sherlock's breathy gasp betrays his own fulfillment as the doctor weeps under the weight of his emotions. Mycroft curls an unsteady hand around the doctor's own neglected organ as he thrusts through the throes of his passion, intent on reinforcing the pleasure of being so pliable.  
  
The force of climax steals the doctor's wits, leaving him pliant and lax between the brothers. Sherlock withdraws, allowing the doctor to slump bonelessly to the rug. Mycroft's ardent intent is rapidly recovering and he toys with the thoroughly despoiled medical man, tugging absently on sweat-curled chest hair. He makes a mental note to inquire as to the likely completion of his new bed, the old being a casualty of his underestimation of the good Doctor Watson.  
  
Sherlock is watching him with pride and amusement in his eyes. "Well, brother?"  
  
"I think," Mycroft says with deliberately somber tone "That you were correct. The doctor is indeed the finest possible helpmate."


End file.
